Paternal Instinct
by MrsTater
Summary: Gabriel knows now that the power to give life to another is far more special than the power to take life for himself. Spoilers for episode 3.4.


_Episode 3.4, "I Am Become Death" inspired this first foray into __Heroes fic. Of course, I'm afraid it'll all be AU in an episode or two, but the prospect of exploring the inner workings of Sylar's mind, as affected by fatherhood, was too intriguing to pass up. I hope this will be an equally interesting read for you other Sylar fans out there. Many thanks to **Godricgal** for giving this a once-over with her super beta-reader vision._

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**Paternal Instinct**

Baby monitors are useless devices for parents with enhanced hearing. Even without one, Gabriel's ears prick at the first whimper that gurgles from the throat of the infant in the room down the hall. It is the only one of Gabriel's powers he allows himself to access these days, though doing so is not a conscious effort on his part. It is instinct, as if nature deems the trait essential to the survival of the human race.

A stirring on the other side of the bed, then a muffled inquiry of whether that's the baby again, followed by a groan when Gabriel gives the affirmative, makes him wonder, for just a second, if he might have climbed this rung of the evolutionary ladder even if he hadn't willfully ascended it by his own violent means; Noah's mother, after all, has never slept through her child's cries. Gabriel puts the thought out of his mind just as he's learned to dismiss the hunger pangs that grip him from time to time, whetting his uniquely cultivated palate, whispering to him with a serpent's silver tongue to take, eat, have knowledge, be a god. He strokes the long, tangled strands of hair back from his wife's cheek, kisses her softly.

"I'll check on Noah," he murmurs, his lips tickling her earlobe.

She squirms, and asks through a yawn, "Time's it?"

Sitting up, Gabriel squints at the alarm clock on the nightstand, but can't make out the glowing red digits. Fumbling around for his glasses, he contemplates why nature wouldn't deem keen eyesight a vital characteristic for a parent. His eardrums throb as Noah's cries crescendo to a shrill wail that could beat an ambulance siren in a volume competition. Maybe sound manipulation is Noah's special gift.

"Two-fifteen," Gabriel answers as he settles the black plastic frames comfortably on the bridge of his nose.

"Not time for a feeding."

"Probably needs a diaper change. Don't worry, I'll do it." He slips out of bed, adjusts his pajama pants that have become twisted on his hips in sleep, then turns back to pull up the comforter over his wife's exposed shoulders, tucking it up under her chin. "You go back to sleep."

He shambles down the darkened hallway to the baby's room, not bothering with the lights, or to stretch out a hand to feel along the wall to get his bearings; instinct directs him around unseen corners and pieces of furniture toward the cries of the infant who needs him.

"Hey, buddy," he croons, stepping through the door of the baby's room. "It's okay, Daddy's here now."

Noah's eyes, scrunched-up, open as Gabriel leans over the crib rail to lift the quivering, miserable newborn out of his nest of blankets, tucking the downy head into the crook of his arm.

The instant the luminous blue eyes lock with his, Gabriel knows it's not for a fresh diaper that his son cries. It isn't anything he's derived from his four natural senses -- no ammoniac odor of urine pricks his nostrils, no warm dampness wets his hand as he pats the thickly diapered bottom; nor is it a particular sound in the cry detected by his enhanced ears, though the parenting books he read before Noah's birth claimed he'd be able to distinguish his child's cries from one another -- which he is rather annoyed to admit he hasn't yet learned to do, as his wife can. He tries not to envy her maternal instincts, but the fact is, he _hates _not possessing knowledge other people have, when it's so readily accessible to him...Even though he does have knowledge that comes entirely from his own unique sense.

Smiling at the thought, he shushes the squirming bundle of blue footie pajama-clad baby, strokes his thumb across the red and wrinkly face to brush away the tears with the delicate touch of a watchmaker, before popping his pinky finger into the howling mouth. Immediately, lips and gums clamp onto him and begin to suck, effectively silencing the unhappy cries.

"You lost your passie, didn't you, Noah?"

Rocking Noah in his arms, Gabriel leans over the crib and just makes out, amid the tangle of baby blankets, the wayward pacifier, half-buried in the yellow gingham bumper at the corner of the crib. He starts to extract his finger from Noah's mouth to reach for it, only to discover that his son is firmly latched on to him.

"Good God, champ! No wonder your mama complains about being sore and won't let me touch those gorgeous big breasts anymore. You've got the jaw of a bulldog. Is _that_ your specialty? The human Jaws of Life?"

Eventually, with the assistance of telekinesis (which he grudgingly unleashes, after justifying to himself that humans would have evolved a third arm if nature hadn't intended for them to move things with their minds), Gabriel retrieves the pacifier and swaps it out for his pinky, which he doubts will ever regain circulation. He cradles Noah for a while longer, mesmerized by the sleepy blue eyes peering up at him with so much trust from beneath lids that droop lower and lower...There is a connection in this gazing, a primal understanding that he's never experienced with another human being: not with any of his victims as he probed the innermost workings of their brains, not even with his wife, though she, more than anyone, has seen his vulnerability as he learned to control the hunger. Is it because Noah is a part of him? Gabriel feels his own body shudder, then relax, as the fragile little form twitches in slumber. Noah is so helpless at this moment, so utterly dependent on his father...

Eventually, reluctantly, Gabriel lays Noah in his crib once more, though he lingers over the baby, tracing his index finger over the fine line of feathery light brown eyebrows which knit together as though in deep concentration. A good watchmaker's expression, Gabriel observes, grinning. Perhaps one day he'll teach his son the trade...

Out the corner of his eye, he glimpses her standing in the doorway. Watching.

Forcing a smile he no longer feels, Gabriel withdraws his hand from Noah, straightens up, and pads across the room to his wife.

"I told you to go back to sleep," he whispers.

"Couldn't. It was too quiet."

Her tone is glib, and her eyes twinkle at him, momentarily, in the dark, but Gabriel doesn't miss the lines that tug at the corners of her mouth as she turns from him and gingerly picks her way around the plethora of strewn toys Noah is yet too tiny to play with. When she reaches the crib and finds her baby sleeping peacefully, she lets out a sigh Gabriel is sure she didn't mean him to hear.

"Was he wet?"

"Lost his pacifier."

"You always know what to do," she says, shaking her head.

"What can I say?" Gabriel asks, joining his wife at the crib, laying a hand on her shoulder. "I'm his father. I know how my boy works."

As if to demonstrate this fact, Noah whimpers, and Gabriel moves to wind the mobile, which tinkles out the Brahms Lullaby and soothes the baby. Gabriel grins smugly at his wife, but she remains intent on their son.

The dim glow of the nightlight reflects off a thin, pale line that extends across her forehead, normally concealed by makeup and her bangs: a scar. Gabriel swallows bitter shame. Not just _a _scar, but the scar she bears because Sylar tried to kill her and take her power for his own. It is a daily reminder to Gabriel to do penance and to shut down that part of himself, as is the ruined watch he straps around his wrist each morning. He knows that she may never trust him completely; he doesn't trust himself completely, beyond a moment-by-moment basis. And yet, for all he knows his wife's mistrust is justified, he finds resentment welling up within him that she doesn't trust him with Noah. How can she think for a moment he could ever hurt his own _son_?

Maybe it's because sometimes he stares into Noah's eyes for as long as he is awake, absorbing knowledge of this wholly fascinating little person. Maybe it's because he jokes sometimes about what abilities will manifest in Noah. Will he take after his mother? Hopefully not after his father -- which isn't at all funny. Or maybe he'll be unlike either of them, unlike anyone, wholly special unto himself...And there's nothing menacing in that wish, he knows. Fatherhood has made Gabriel understand his mother -- Virginia Gray, not Angela Petrelli -- and the wish she'd had for him to be special. He just hopes he will be able to express that to Noah in a way he can understand, as Virginia had not been able to communicate to him.

And he hopes his wife, and everyone else who remembers Sylar, the boogieman, will see that Gabriel knows now that the power to give life to another is far more special than the power to take life for himself.

Tearing his gaze away from Noah, he places his hands on her shoulders, turns her full post-partum figure toward him. Her head is still turned to watch the sleeping baby. Gabriel cups her chin in his hand and gently draws her face up so that her eyes must meet his.

"I know how you work, too."

"Oh, you do, do you?"

She returns his gaze unflinchingly, challengingly, even, as she tilts her chin at him, and Gabriel is reassured that she doesn't fear for herself, that she can even see the humor in their most peculiar situation. He must forgive a mother's protectiveness for her child; there are some traits, after all, that are already too perfected to evolve. In a world of villains, he is grateful his son is lucky enough to have this woman for his mother.

Gabriel bends his head and presses his lips to the pale mark on her forehead. His trails his fingertips down from her chin, along the graceful curve of her neck, pausing to feel the vibration of her vocal chords as she emits the slightest of sighs at his touch, and the slight acceleration of her pulse, before venturing still lower, to graze the swell of her breasts above the low neckline of her thin cotton camisole.

She shivers, but for the first time since she had the baby, doesn't withdraw from Gabriel's advance.

"Yes, I know just what makes you tick," he murmurs, then captures her lips in his, kissing her deeply -- but briefly. "I'll make love to you tonight," he says huskily, "and then in the morning, you can sleep in while I cook waffles."

She hums as he bends to kiss her throat, raking her fingers into his hair, lightly scratching his scalp.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Gabe, but I don't think it takes super intuition to know I'm horny and sleep-deprived."

Raising his head, Gabriel quirks an eyebrow at his wife. "Oh really? Well, if I'm just a regular guy who's figured out the complex mind of a woman, then I guess that makes me even more special than I thought."

She rolls her eyes. "Shut up and kiss me, you egomaniacal freak."

Gabriel does -- because that's how it works.

_The End_

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**_A/N: This is my very first Heroes fic, so feedback would be very much appreciated. To entice you to drop a line or two, I offer reviewers waffles made by Sylar. Where he pours the syrup, of course, is up to you. ;)_**


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